I Have Moved
Yesterday, I loaded up the wagon and moved on over to Wordpress.
My new address is http://russellgayer.wordpress.com/
Same silly stuff on a new channel
Thursday, August 23, 2012
My original intention was to title today’s Friday Flash fiction Foggy Mental Breakdown in honor of the Steppenwolf song. But I was struggling powerful. The words just would not come. Then for some reason, I started thinking about wise old owl and his buddy raccoon. So, I stopped by Craig’s blog and read his story. Next thing I knew I was humming Led Zeppelin and writing about bluegrass music. Go figure.
This week’s beautiful (and inspiring) photo is courtesy of Maggie Duncan.
Misty Mountain Hop
“Where’s that noise coming from?”
“What noise? I don’t hear anything.”
“It sounds like an owl playing fiddle and a raccoon on banjo.”
“You can hear all that? What you been smoking, man?”
“Nothing—I swear. It’s coming from that foggy holler between them hills.”
“If you could hear music—and I ain’t saying you can—what makes you think it’s being played by animals?”
“It’s upbeat and adventurous with a hint of sorrow.”
“So, that’s not unusual for bluegrass.”
“This is special music, not ordinary bluegrass. Powerful medicine for children.”
“Oh, I hear it now. That’s Craig Towsley’s place.”
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Did you ever wonder why there were no mythological Gods of Redneck Folklore? Neither did I.
Then I saw this wonderful picture (copyright Lura Helms) and I said to myself, “That explains it!”
I’m sure a bunch of ya’ll are gonna leave comments thanking me for enlightening you on Redneck Mythology. I won’t be able to respond right away as I am on the road this weekend, but don’t worry, I promise to visit your blogs as soon as I return. I appreciate you stopping by.
Billy Bob was half goat/half man. We won’t go into his genealogical lineage, but suffice it to say, his kinfolks are regulars on Dr. Phil.
One day, Billy Bob was peeping over the fork of ash tree spying on three beautiful young nymphs skinny dipping. Little did he know that this particular tree was a Venus Fly Ash.
His Mom saw him and cried out, “Billy Bob, pull your head out of that ash!” But the tree snapped shut on Billy’s head.
The moral of the story is; "When you’re doing something naughty; don't stick your head up an ash."
Thursday, August 9, 2012
This week’s entry is an excerpt from my short story, “Lost at Peter Bottom,” which has been selected by Tales From the South for their September 18th show at Starving Artist Café in North Little Rock, AR. This may not have the level of humor you’re used to from me, but it fit well with the prompt and gave me a chance to toot my own horn at the same time.
Photo by Susan Wenzel.
There were rocks to skip and mussel shells to scoop sand from the water’s edge. Why did I ever leave the safety and security of such an oasis?
The answer is simple. Greed.
This was a fishing trip. The primary goal when fishing is to catch fish. We had worked this hole quite a while with no success. I tried various types of bait, often leaving them in the same spot for an eternity of two whole minutes without getting so much as a nibble. Frustration mounted with each passing moment. The length of my patience could be measured against the point of a hook—with plenty of room to spare.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
I ‘m known to have a strong stomach, but this week’s photo made me GAG! Now, I’m afraid to go to sleep for fear this disgusting image has burned itself into my brain cell (singular). When I was child nightmares of snakes often plagued my sleep. Just when I thought I’d put that chapter behind me—BAM! Now, I have to write about it. Oh well, the doctor says it's good therapy.
I hate snakes. All five kinds—large, small, dead, alive, and rubber.
As a rural farm boy, I was unfortunate enough to experience dozens of unexpected encounters with these cold-blooded vermin. From March to November they sensed my every move, engaging in a horrible conspiracy to torment and terrorize me—often generating unsightly stains in my underpants.
The most horrific of all these despicable, slimy creatures is the Ozark Snotnose. This snake does not have fangs, but smothers its victim in a disgusting drool the consistency of rubber cement.
There is no anti-venom. Your only defense is tall boots and Kleenex.
Friday, July 27, 2012
People often ask me, “Where did you get a crazy idea like that?” I usually reply with some cock & bull explanation that I merely observe the world around me and the stories write themselves. Today, (against my own better judgment) I have decided to share my source of inspiration. Be forewarned that this act can only be performed by skilled professionals after years of training. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!
Bucket of Ideas
“Billy, see that bucket hanging on the fence?”
“Sure, Grandpa. What’s in it?”
“That’s where Grandpa gets the ideas for his stories.”
“Really? How does it work?”
Grandpa leaned over, stuck his ear under the spigot, turned the tap, and made a bubbling noise to indicate the invisible flow filling his brain. Once full, he straightened up, shook his head like a dog and said, “Umm, that’s a good one.”
“Wow, that’s cool. Is that where Grandma gets her ideas for all the projects she has for you?”
“Oh no, son. She has those delivered in a large tanker trunk.”
Friday, July 20, 2012
When I download the photo for Friday Flash Fiction, I usually go with the first thing that pops in my head. The reason being, my brain is so small it can only contain one thought at a time, and even then, if it’s a very big thought my neurocranium starts to swell. This week’s photo triggered multiple thoughts sending me into a neurocalyptic (You like that word? I made it up. J) spasm attack. I spat all three ideas out on 3 x 5 section of used Kleenex and applied the scientific method, Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Moe, to select a topic. My apologies to Edgar Rice Burroughs and Marvin Gaye.
To read more stories based on this photo, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
I Heard it Through the Grapevine
“Jane, you look so sad. What’s the matter?”
“Oh Cheeta, since George came to the jungle, I find myself questioning my love for Tarzan.”
“I can understand your infatuation with a younger man. After all, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen another male of your species.”
“It sure has. And George is so sweet and childlike. He counts the petals on every flower.”
“That’s because he has the brain of a six year old, Jane. He can’t swing from a grapevine without slamming into a tree.”
“Yes, Tarzan is a better swinger, but George uses a bigger vine.”